


Lavish

by Occasus



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Blink and You Miss The Breathplay, Breathplay, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Lingerie, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26225518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Occasus/pseuds/Occasus
Summary: It was supposed to be simple. Except nothing was simple when Rufus Shinra was involved.Gifts. Letters. Promises to meet again. It’s all very idyllic and rose-colored. Not something men like Tseng get to even dream of, let alone experience.
Relationships: Rufus Shinra/Tseng
Comments: 21
Kudos: 95





	1. Invitations

The package left on Tseng’s desk is simple: a plain black box, flat in color, wrapped with a white satin ribbon. There’s a note attached to the top, significantly flashier than the gift’s packaging—a dark envelope embossed with silver filigree, sealed in crimson wax. If the note’s impressive appearance wasn’t enough indication of who sent it, the initials _R.S._ pressed artfully into the wax were a dead giveaway. 

Tseng carefully detaches the small envelope from the ribbon, retrieving the letter opener from the top drawer of his desk. He slides the sharp point beneath the edge of the fine paper, hesitating a moment before he breaks the seal. 

The scent of familiar cologne hits him as he slides the note out of the envelope, and Tseng shakes his head at the frivolity of it all. He unfolds the crisp stationary, reading the single, handwritten line: _For when I see you again._

Tseng sets the letter aside and picks up the box. It’s lighter than he expected. The contents shift almost imperceptibly as he settles the box on his lap. With some amusement, he wonders how on Gaia the unaddressed package made it to him—handwritten, perfumed letter and all—all the way from the Vice President’s gilded cage in Junon. 

Not that flying under the radar was anything new for Rufus Shinra. 

It had been several weeks since Tseng last spoke with Rufus. Contacting him for reasons other than official business was risky. The house arrest the President imposed was strict, the majority of his wayward son’s activity closely monitored. The Turks had been tasked with keeping tabs on the errant heir—dropping in at random intervals, tracking his account transactions, screening all incoming and outgoing communication. 

Admittedly, Tseng had made an active effort to avoid direct contact with Rufus lately, sending the others in his stead and intentionally keeping himself occupied with other matters. His complex relationship with Rufus Shinra was a constant nagging in the back of his mind, a question mark hanging over his head. A tangle of emotions in his ribcage. 

Friends. Confidants. Lovers. 

_Traitors._

Tseng had chosen his side, and he was in far too deep to turn back now. Not that he had any regrets—he belonged in Rufus’ corner, loyal to a fault. Prepared to throw away all he had known and worked for, to bite the very hand that fed him and disgrace his legacy to the company in the name of Rufus Shinra and the future he—not his gluttonous, corrupt father—could bring to fruition. 

It started as simply as that. Loyalty. Hope for better. An alliance of sorts forming on the heels of betrayal. Tseng got to know Rufus and all his aspirations, the yawning sadness behind the veneer, and somewhere down the line, things between them shifted. In hindsight, he was foolish to think it could ever be so black and white. Nothing was ever _simple_ when Rufus Shinra was involved. 

Tseng fingers the edge of the ribbon thoughtfully, his throat tightening with a betraying emotion he refuses to name. Gifts. Letters. Promises to meet again. It’s all very idyllic and rose-colored. Not something men like Tseng can afford to dream of, let alone experience. 

An ends to a means, that was Tseng’s purpose. An advantageous cog in the corporate wheel that Rufus Shinra sought to sink his teeth into and call his own. Tseng wasn’t naive. Rufus liked flirting with dangerous things, enjoyed the thrill of riding the knife-edge. He burned through anything and any _one_ necessary to achieve his goal.

Rufus was unobtainable. 

Tseng glances at the letter again. Rufus’ elegant script, his written words an unmistakable tease to draw Tseng back to him. 

Rufus was lonely. Rufus had _always_ been lonely. His infatuation with Tsent was merely that, but it was becoming a problem. Was _already_ a problem, the ache in Tseng’s chest reminds him. He never intended to cross the line with his superior, but Rufus could be quite persuasive, and Tseng had a certain _weakness_ for him he didn’t care to admit. The prospect of finding release with someone he could trust was too tempting, _Rufus_ was too tempting, and when he slid into Tseng’s lap late one evening to press his lips to Tseng’s mouth, Tseng had kissed him back, tasting conviction on his tongue even as his hands found their way beneath Rufus’ clothes. 

Tseng knew what Rufus looked like on his back, on his knees. He knew the sweet taste of Rufus’ cruel mouth. The way his blue eyes rolled back when he was filled with cock. The sounds he made when he came. The illicit thoughts drove Tseng mad, haunted his dreams so that he woke panting and sweating in the night with Rufus Shinra’s name curled on his tongue. 

Which was exactly why he had kept his distance in recent weeks. Processing. Safeguarding himself. 

He drums his fingers on the giftbox. Even a hundred miles away, Rufus could get to him, making it apparent that Tseng had spent too much time away from his affections. Lavishing him with gift-wrapped bribery and a playful invitation to return. 

Sighing, Tseng unties the fragile ribbon and sets it aside on his desk. He pauses with his fingers on the edges of the box, wracking his brain for any clue as to what Rufus might have sent him and coming up short. Finally, he resigns to whatever fate Rufus has sealed for him and lifts the lids. At first, he is puzzled by what is revealed, scowling down into the box. 

Realization dawns, he hears his own sharp intake of breath. 

Tseng slaps the lid back onto the box even though he is alone in his office. He knows his ears have reddened by the change in their temperature. 

“Rufus _Shinra,”_ he hisses under his breath, daring to take another peek at the box's contents just to be certain he hasn’t lost his mind. A neat pile of black lace and silk, nestled in red tissue paper. Tseng pinches the topmost piece between his thumb and forefinger, the material so delicate he fears he’ll damage it simply by touching it. A pair of underwear, sheer lace and daintier than anything he’s ever laid eyes on. Lifting them out reveals a garter belt with elegant silver clasps, and folded neatly underneath it lies a pair of matching silk stockings, the tops banded with intricate lace. 

The very idea of wearing something so _immodest_ makes Teng’s insides knot. Doubtlessly, Rufus had sent the provocative gift off with a devious smile, knowing it would fluster Tseng beyond words. 

Tseng curiously smooths his hand over the stockings, imagining the cool, slick feel of them against his legs. He studies the lace pattern of the underwear and feels his face flush. His body betrays him, heat pooling restlessly between his legs as he thinks of Rufus’ pale hands running up his calves over the silk. Rufus’ white teeth tugging the stockings down his thighs. Rufus’ warm mouth dampening the lace over his cock—

Clever Rufus thinks he has him. Sending a luxurious gift with the unspoken promise of so much more. Giving Tseng something to ponder on, to fantasize about. 

Tseng scoffs and closes up the lingerie, holding the box to his chest. He’s tempted to reattach the ribbon and mark the package _Return to Sender._ Instead, he smuggles it back to his stark, Shinra-issued apartment at the end of the day, hiding it away in the back of his closet to be forgotten. 

A week passes in a blur. Tseng’s work keeps him busy, keeps his mind occupied. A target eliminated. Stacks of paperwork finished. Meetings completed and reports filed. He thinks of Rufus from time to time, wonders with some amusement how he must have felt when a Turk who was not Tseng showed up at his penthouse. His gift and invitation ignored. 

“He asked about you,” Reno says a few days later. He tosses a wrinkled, coffee-stained stack of papers onto Tseng’s desk. A copy of Rufus’ account transactions. 

“I trust the Vice President is well?” Tseng doesn’t look up from what he’s writing, focusing on the scratch of his fountain pen. 

“Yup,” Reno snorts, “His usual pain-in-the-ass self.” 

Tseng senses he has more to say on the matter, but thinks better of it. 

“When you gonna let me have a real mission? I’m sick of pushin’ papers and babysitting his royal brattiness.” 

Tseng shoots him a glare. “Then send Rude next time and I’ll find something else for you to do.” 

Reno scowls and shoves his hands into his pockets. “Whatever you say, boss.” He doesn’t protest further, taking his leave. As he lopes out, he pauses in the doorway, his knowing green gaze sticking to Tseng’s back. “You can’t avoid him forever, y’know.” 

“Goodbye, Reno.” Tseng says, and returns his attention to his work. 

Another week passes as swiftly as the last. Tseng keeps distracted, throwing himself into his work. 

It’s late in the night when Tseng leans over his bathroom sink, pouring antiseptic over a bleeding gash in his side. The wound bubbles, burning like Ifrit’s hellfire, and he sucks a in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. Luckily, the laceration isn’t deep enough to require stitches, and he patches it up using his reflection in the dingy mirror to judge where to place the bandage. 

Staring at his reflection—all lean muscle and hard angles, scars in varying ages and stages of healing—he thinks of the box in his closet for the first time since bringing it home. 

He was a weapon of Shinra. A well-oiled machine. Beneath his sharp suit and tie, Tseng’s body was built like what it was—deadly, dangerous. He carried the marks of the life he signed his soul away to. Faded slashes from blades and rough patches from flames. The pink, puckered starburst of gunshot wound in his shoulder, long-healed and serving as a reminder that his life could end in an instant. Bodies like Tseng’s were designed for specific tasks, and wearing frippery like lace and silk wasn’t on the list. Bodies like his weren’t made for luxuries. Tseng held no reservations about his appearance either way, but it was absurd to think a killer would look anything but foolish in a set of black lace lingerie. 

A soft chime sounds from the pocket of his bloodstained suit jacket where it lies flung across the edge of the bathtub. He retrieves the company-issued phone and frowns at the screen. There were no notifications, which meant—

Tseng digs his personal cell out of the other pocket. He could count the number of people who knew the number to this device on one hand. A single text message lights up the screen, the sender marked only as RESTRICTED. Tseng taps in his passcode, holding his breath. 

_I’ve been thinking about you. I see you in dreams. It’s lonely here. Come see me._

Tseng reads the words over and over, his thumb hovering above the screen, his chest tight. He tries to convince himself it’s a wrong number, but he knows better. He doesn’t know how long he sits on the edge of the bathtub, re-reading the words, but finally, he deletes the message without replying, and powers the phone off. 

He doesn’t sleep at all that night, tossing and turning beneath the thin sheet. Thoughts of Rufus keep him awake, making him clench his fists at his sides to keep from touching himself to visions of the company heir knelt between his legs, blue eyes looking up at him from beneath gossamer lashes, pink lips wrapped around his cock. 

Three fitful, sleepless nights later, Tseng flies south to Junon.


	2. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You didn’t come here on business,” Rufus muses. He angles his body toward Tseng and takes a step in closer, close enough for their slight difference in height to be evident, Tseng’s eyes on level with his mouth. “Did you?” 
> 
> “No.” 
> 
> Rufus grins, predatory. “Pleasure, then.”

Junon is hazy and gray. Clouds of smog hang overhead, tinged an unnatural shade of yellow as evening approaches. The elevated airfield of Shinra’s military installation casts a bloated shadow over the harbor, snuffing out the sun and choking the life from the once-thriving seaside community. 

Tseng steps out of the helicopter, wind from the blades whipping his long hair around his shoulders and into his eyes. Junon perpetually reeks; the copper tang of industry, acrid with Mako, blending with the briny stench of decay coming off the harbor. The air is thick with moisture, and Tseng sweats under his suit jacket from the moment his feet hit the tarmac. He is hyper-aware of the pinch of lace around his thighs beneath his well-tailored suit, the rasp of silk against the hair on his legs as he walks, the subtle tug of the garters with each shift of his hips. 

A pair of low-ranking security officers silently acknowledge his presence by standing at attention when he passes. Tseng feels their eyes on him from beneath their identical helmets. He glances down to make sure he isn’t flashing anything provocative, but no, it’s his presence alone that unnerves them. The dark suit of the Turks was an identifier, a warning label that read: _Danger!_

Tseng tells himself he came to Junon on duty. It was time to check in on Rufus, and Reno and Rude were on assignments of their own. Months had passed since Tseng’s last visit—he was overdue to give the others a break. 

It’s a convenient lie that made him feel less guilty, less desperate. He had gone too far with Rufus, and he knew it. He had overstepped his bounds, crossed lines he never should have. He was treading uncharted waters now, his chest a snarl of emotions he had let simmer to long for a man he had no right to desire. 

Tseng didn’t think himself capable of love. The very thought was laughable. He was a loner, self-reliant and self-sufficient. He was professional and pragmatic. First and foremost, he was a _Turk_ —there was no room for love in his line of work. Lust perhaps, but never _love._

He didn’t know what to call his feelings for Rufus other than _problematic._

Personal attachments were a weakness. A luxury he couldn’t afford. Yet here he was in Junon, on his way to see Rufus Shinra, wearing _lingerie_ under his uniform for Shiva’s sake. 

The words _stupid, ridiculous, reckless_ and _idiotic_ bounce around his brain. 

Tseng knew the way to the penthouse by heart, slipping through security checkpoints and restricted areas only those with the highest security clearance were permitted past. A sleek, black card with no identifiers grants him access to the elevator that will take him to the upper levels. Another swipe and a passcode gets him up to the penthouse. He hesitates outside the heavy security door, staring into the winking red eye of the camera. Conviction tightens his throat as he stands outside Rufus’ door, as if the security feed sees through his clothes to the incriminating evidence beneath. 

He drags in a deep breath through his nose, holds it until his lungs burn. He shouldn’t be here. His rendezvous with Rufus was too risky. There was still time to change his mind. He could leave now. Turn around, head back to the helipad and return to Midgar. No one would question him, not someone of his rank. It would be as if he never came at all. 

Tseng recalls the message that came to his personal phone. The one he deleted without answering. 

_It’s lonely here._

_Come see me._

He considers the gift left on his desk, the open desire of it, the implicit promise it represented. A risked glance in the mirror before leaving his apartment had ruined him. Black lace contrasting against his olive skin, garter belt accentuating the lean cut of his waist, stockings showing off the strength in the lines of his long legs. Absurdly, his chest had looked _too_ bare, left ungarnished save a littering of scars. But perhaps that was Rufus’ intention—highlight some features while openly displaying others. 

Tseng feels the tease of it against his skin as he stands frozen at the door. The rasp of silk and slip of lace beneath his suit, galvanizing every nerve until he aches. What a waste it would be, to adorn himself such in garb only to never know the thrill of having it taken off by the hands that gifted it to him. 

Resolved, he swipes his card a final time. A soft beep sounds, indicating he has passed the first of a two-step identity verification system. He tucks the keycard into his breast pocket before deftly popping the button at the back of his glove loose, sliding the leather off his hand to rest the pad of his finger against the print reader. Another quiet beep, and the electronic locks disengage with a whirring of the mechanism. 

A second set of doors lie beyond, wooden double doors with elegant gold handles, the Shinra Electric Power Company logo carved artfully into the dark panels. Muted piano music drifts from the other side, the melody low and melancholy. Lonely. 

Behind Tseng, the security locks begin to automatically grind back into place, sealing him inside the vestibule. His pulse quickens. No turning back now. 

He crosses the small space, wrapping steady fingers around the door handle. He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t think about what he’s about to do for fear he’ll change his mind and bolt back to Midgar. He pushes open one-half of the double doors and slips into the penthouse, silent as a cat. 

The scene inside is a spread straight from a posh magazine. _Midgar’s Elite._ The space is wide and open, the wall opposite the entry made entirely of glass, displaying a brilliant sunset over the ocean. Rays stream through onto the gleaming wooden floors, bathe the furniture in gold, spill across the polished edges of the white baby-grand piano positioned in the corner of the room. Across the sharp, aristocratic features of one Rufus Shinra, who looks up from his playing so the blazing light catches in his eyes and turns them to mercury. 

His pretty mouth lifts into a smile when he recognizes Tseng, and the music stops abruptly, his hands leaving the keys. 

“Tseng.” 

Rufus has a voice like silver. He lets the name hang in the air between them. 

The sound of his name in that voice sends a thrill through Tseng. A voice that will command armies, create and destroy with the curl of lips and tongue, the voice of the future.

“Good evening, sir.” Tseng dips his head and quietly pulls the door shut behind himself. 

Blue eyes roll dramatically. “Do drop the formalities. We’re alone.” Rufus looks back down at his hands. He plays a soft, minor chord before falling back into his somber melody. 

Tseng folds his hands behind his back, crossing the room in a wide arc. He pauses over Rufus’ shoulder at a respectful distance, observing. There is no music on the rackboard—Rufus plays only by ear and muscle memory. His hands were made for piano playing, lovely white hands with long, tapered fingers and blunt, perfectly manicured nails. Despite Rufus’ noble birth and upbringing, Tseng recalls a time when those hands were calloused from long hours of weapons training, hard work that honed his skills and made him an unrivaled marksman. 

Not so anymore, trapped here in genteel finery. Now, Rufus maintained his dexterity through piano keys rather than firearms. 

The melody shifts into something vaguely familiar. Nostalgia tugs at a fuzzy place in the back of Tseng’s mind. “That’s lovely,” he says genuinely, “I think I’ve heard it before.” 

Rufus hums a soft sound of acknowledgement, his shoulders shifting with the music so that wisps of silvery blond fall across his forehead. “Very likely. It’s a piece my mother used to play. Helps me relax.” 

The glimpse into Rufus’ private memories makes Tseng feel oddly sentimental. He imagines Rufus small and curious, blue eyes bright with childish wonder, feet dangling from the piano bench while his mother taught him her personal favorites. 

Rufus’ hands glide down the keys into the final cadence, dropping into a single low, dissonant chord. He traps the notes with the press of his fingers, holding them out until they fade to silence.

“Don’t stop on my account.” Tseng moves to step away, but Rufus’ hand darts out to catch his wrist. Cool fingers brush the stripe of skin between Tseng’s glove and shirtsleeve, sending electricity up his arm. 

“No, no.” Rufus smiles, bright and full of mischief. “I much prefer your company to my lonely playing.” He releases Tseng and rises from the piano bench, smoothing the front of his sweater. “Come on, it’s getting late. Let’s have a drink and catch up.” 

“I shouldn’t drink on the job.” Tseng says, but follows after Rufus to the bar anyway. 

“One day, the only man you’ll answer to is me.” Rufus says matter-of-factly while pouring himself a glass of bourbon, neat. “Then you can have a drink whenever you like. Here,” he pours a second glass and slides it across the marble bartop to Tseng. 

“Thank you.” Tseng accepts the drink with a tight-lipped smile. He perches on the barstool opposite Rufus and takes a tentative sip. He crosses his legs, and nearly chokes when the movement causes the garter strap to pull taught, tugging at the lace around his thigh. 

“It’s been a while, Tseng. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming back.” Rufus murmurs. He lounges against the bar, swirling rich gold liquid in his glass. Late evening light falls across his profile, turning him into a dramatic portrait etched in gold, highlighting the straight line of his nose, the sharp angle of his jaw, the perfect bow of his mouth. 

A sight far more interesting and beautiful than any ocean view. 

Tseng glances toward the window, squinting into the blazing sun as it sinks into the horizon. It’s easier to lie to Rufus when he isn’t looking directly at him. “My apologies. I’ve been busy.” 

“I’m sure.” Rufus watches him over the rim of his glass with a look that says he sees right through him. He has always had a way of scrutinizing Tseng that makes him feel as if he can see the very thoughts in his head as they’re being formed. “Well, I’m pleased to have you back. I can only take so much of Reno’s incessant prattle and Rude’s dour silence.” 

Tseng laughs, imagining the withered look on Rufus’ face while Reno yammered on about everything and nothing, from mundane to outrageous. Or Rufus and Rude sitting together in maddening silence, the taciturn Turk’s arms crossed and dark glasses staring out the window.

“I trust they’ve kept you entertained in my absence.” 

“You could call it that.” Rufus mutters and finishes off his drink. Tseng watches the bob of his Adam’s apple when he swallows and feels suddenly starved. He thinks of setting his teeth against the graceful line of Rufus’ neck, leaving his mark there on the porcelain skin. He forces himself to look elsewhere, staring down at his fingers curled around his drink. 

Rufus sets his glass aside and shrugs away from the bar. He rounds the corner, trailing his fingers along the bartop. Tseng tracks the movement in his periphery, sensing a shift in the atmosphere. Rufus steps in close to him, close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough for Tseng to catch a whiff of his cologne, hints of sandalwood and ginger. The same rich, spicy scent that came with the letter some weeks ago. 

“Tseng.” 

Tseng doesn’t immediately look up. After a beat of tense silence, Rufus becomes impatient. He reaches out to cup Tseng’s chin, gently tilting his face to look him in the eye. 

“You’ve been avoiding me, Tseng,” he says directly, “Why?” 

“That’s a bit presumptuous,” Tseng hears himself say, his tone cool despite the hammering of his heart behind his ribs. “Believe it or not, my duties do consist of more than checking in on you. As I said, I’ve been quite busy.” 

Rufus clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Try again, Tseng.” His thumb strokes Tseng’s cheek, the intimacy of the gesture at odds with the accusation in his voice. “I _am_ your business. Yet you’ve been radio silent for weeks. You’ve ignored my messages. Sent your subordinates in your place.” He breathes a sigh through his nose. “I can only assume my gift was not well received.” 

_Oh, if you only knew._

Tseng’s face heats. He is acutely aware of the garter belt sitting on his waist, the delicate lace cupping the curve of his cock beneath his suit. He wraps a hand around Rufus’ slender wrist to halt his advances. “No, it isn’t—”

“What then?” Rufus presses. He ignores Tseng’s grip on him, brushing the pad of his thumb along the swell of his lower lip, soft as a whisper. Tseng resists the sudden, irrational urge to turn his mouth into Rufus’ naked palm. As if sensing his inner turmoil, Rufus takes another step into him, easing a leg between his knees. He leans down to press his mouth to Tseng’s ear, breath hot against his neck. “Why tonight, Tseng? After so long away? Were you missing me?” 

Tseng fails to reign in a full-body shudder. 

“Do you remember,” Rufus continues, lips teasing Tseng’s ear with each word, “The last time you ‘checked in’ on me? I sucked you off. You had me over the piano—”

 _“Rufus,”_ Tseng warns through his teeth. But oh, he _does_ remember, and the memory sends his blood rushing south. Rufus on his knees, moaning around a mouthful of cock. The flex of fine muscle beneath ivory skin when he bent for Tseng, the graceful arc of his spine. His palms squeaking for purchase against the shiny lacquer of the piano lid and the sound of his voice breaking when he begged, _Tseng, please—_

Tseng’s control careens towards the edge, tipping on the precipice of no return. He _aches_ for Rufus, conflicted. He should have never come tonight. It was a foolish lapse in judgment, letting Rufus entice him back here. There was so much at stake, yet he continued to push the boundaries. Flying to Junon against his better judgement—to _Rufus_ —like a moth to flame. His lack of self control would be their undoing. His loyalty to Rufus was equivalent to high treason. As for the physical aspect of their relationship? If they were caught, Tseng’s life would be forfeit, and he would likely drag the remaining Turks down with him. For Rufus, it would mean _everything_ —the future of the company, Midgar, all the things he had spent his life working for, _clawing for_ , whisked out from under him in a blink. 

Rufus leans slowly away, sharp eyes searching Tseng’s face. “I lost you. What’s going on in that head of yours?” 

Tseng draws in a long breath that shakes into his lungs. He left Midgar with every intention of surrendering to his sins, letting Rufus have his way. He had wanted it, longed for it, fantasized about it. Now, he can think only of what they stand to lose. Everything they’ve accomplished together. 

It’s sobering, the knowledge that he would not only lose Rufus, but that Rufus would be stripped of his very birthright in the process. 

A case of personal desire versus professional obligation.

Tseng should have never allowed it to spiral so far. It was his own fault for giving in to Rufus in the first place. He knows that he should leave, knows what he should say. Knows too, that saying it will leave him gutted. 

“This is dangerous.” The words tumble out despite the lump in his throat. Anguish settles in his stomach, cold as stone. “I do not wish to do anything that would further jeopardize your future with the company.” 

Rufus recoils. His eyes widen with shock so raw Tseng feels the pang of it himself. The hurt is present for only an instant before it twists into something else. Fair brows slam down over fierce blue. 

“So that’s it.” Rufus kicks his chin up, laughing bitterly as he takes a step back. “Typical Tseng. You’ve tried to _reason_ your way through this. Made yourself feel _guilty_ for fucking me.” 

The words hit like a slap. 

“It’s not that simple.” A betraying emotion strains Tseng’s voice, and he hates himself for it. “There are rules—”

“Oh, you and your _rules,”_ Rufus scoffs. He is suddenly crowding into Tseng’s space, furiously gripping his chin. Blunt nails dig into Tseng’s jaw hard enough to leave crescent-moons in his skin. “You weren’t thinking about your rules when it was happening. When you were _inside me.”_

It’s an agonizing sort of power, Tseng thinks, the ability to wound Rufus Shinra. He was foolish to think sleeping with him would ever be merely that. Foolish to think he wouldn’t want— _need_ —more once he had a taste. 

Somehow, Rufus had become Tseng’s singular weakness. 

“It was never supposed to be like this. I didn’t intend for things to get out of hand.” 

Rufus seizes him by the tie, jerking him forward so they are nose to nose. His eyes are dark and fervent in the dying light, his voice dripping venom. “Why did you come tonight, Tseng?” He demands. “Just to make a fool of me? And if you try to talk your way around it again by telling me it’s all official business, I _swear—”_

“You know _exactly_ why I’m here,” Tseng hisses. 

The admission settles in the silence between them. Having said it out loud, Tseng feels at once relieved and eviscerated. 

Rufus sneers, mirthless. 

“I won’t gamble with your future.” Tseng continues, softening his tone. “The company is too important. Rufus, _you’re_ too important. It was just sex, it’s not worth the risk of—”

“Shut _up.”_

Rufus shakes him hard enough to rattle his teeth in his skull. 

“Just sex.” His smile is acidic, anger warping his attractive features. 

Tseng stares back at him, addled. He dares not speak. 

“Tell me you don’t want me.” Rufus’ voice drops into a heavy whisper. He grips Tseng’s tie until his knuckles white. “Tell me it was only _ever just sex._ You used me. It meant nothing to you. Nothing when you _fucked_ me. Tell me you haven’t thought about me these nights we’ve spent apart.” 

Rufus Shinra, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a key to the world in his hand. A man who had everything he could ever want—except the affection he craved. Broken as he faced down another rejection in a long line of disappointment and neglect. 

“Tell me you never _cared_ about me.” Rufus licks his lips, searching Tseng’s face for an answer with eyes so intensely blue, they rob Tseng of his breath. 

Tseng swallows hard. His mouth is suddenly dry. His pulse races wildly, and he’s certain Rufus can see it fluttering in the side of his throat 

He feels unhinged. Raw. 

As a Turk, Tseng had done unspeakable things. Committed atrocities and enacted violence such that he carried a body count like a living, breathing disaster. He had been Shinra’s red right hand for so long. Unwavering. Steady-handed and clear-headed in carrying out his duty. He had been described as cruel, cunning, and cold. A bloodhound hunting the streets. Shinra’s reaper, dressed in black. 

Admitting he has feelings for Rufus Shinra reduces him to ruin. 

Rufus simmers, waiting, twisting his fist in Tseng’s tie so tightly it cranes Tseng’s neck forward on his shoulders. 

“Rufus.” Tseng has _never_ heard his voice sound the way it does now. So _vulnerable._ His words stick in his throat, choking him, rendering him dumb. 

Rufus leans closer, so close Tseng smells the woodsy scent of bourbon on his breath, feels the warmth of his words across his skin. “I can’t pretend we never happened, but I can give you an out. Nothing will change if you choose to walk out that door. I won’t go back on the promise I made to the Turks. I value you too much to turn on you now, but—” His voice wavers, a minute hitch in his breath. His hand trembles where it remains tightly fisted below Tseng’s throat. The glacial fury in his eyes dims, fading to something softer, sadder. 

“I trust you, Tseng. But if all of this has truly meant nothing to you, then go. If you regret it, if you _don’t want it._ Say the word.” 

Tseng’s history with Rufus flashes rapid-fire through his mind like film reel. Everything from the moment their paths intersected, up to now. Not so long ago, Tseng cursed the ground Rufus Shinra’s entitled feet walked on. At one time, he was the enemy—until he spared the lives of the Turks, and shifted the trajectory of Tseng’s course forever. The two of them bonded over time, allied in treachery against his father’s throne. They understood each other like no one else. A trust unspoken. 

Confidants. Friends. Lovers. 

Tseng owed his life to this infuriating, terrifying, _beautiful_ man who would one day rule the world. Rufus Shinra held his allegiance until he drew his final breath. 

Tseng’s gaze falls to Rufus’ mouth, and he is lost. He has never wanted anything more in his life. 

“I want it,” he whispers, “I want _you.”_

Rufus crashes into him, all tongue and teeth, kissing him like a man possessed. The force of it nearly knocks Tseng backward, so that he has to grip the edge of the bar to keep from tipping off his stool. 

Rules be damned. He opens for Rufus, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding until it leaves him on a rush. He tilts his head and Rufus licks into his mouth as Tseng’s hands come up to wrap around his neck and draw him closer. His world narrows to the press of their lips, the taste of Rufus on his tongue, the heat of his hands against his neck, slipping into the collar of his shirt. When they finally break apart, Tseng is dizzy from it, panting as if he sprinted from the harbor. 

“Give me time, Tseng.” Rufus sighs into their shared breath. “Things will be so different. You won’t have to worry about protocol.” He holds Tseng’s face in both hands, thumbs tenderly stroking his cheeks. “Trust me.” 

“You make it sound simple.” Tseng laughs, _“Trust me,_ says the traitor.” 

“To the killer,” Rufus counters and kisses him again, softer this time. “It _will_ be simple, when it’s mine. You’ll see. I intend to make good on all my promises to you.” He nuzzles at Tseng’s jaw before abruptly pulling away and brushing past him, leaving him seated on the barstool, breathless and reeling and wanting. 

Tseng watches Rufus’ back as he crosses the room, compelled. He tracks the shift of his shoulders and narrow hips until he slips into shadow. Beyond his silhouette, stray stars wink between clouds of smog, moonlight haloing silver and ethereal over the water amidst the gloom. Rufus pauses in the center of the room, turning his head so the light falls across his profile, throwing shadow into the hollow of his cheek. He tosses a heated glance over his shoulder, and his eyes are diamonds. 

“Come here, lover.” 

It’s damning how quickly Tseng complies. On his feet, taking his place at Rufus’ side with his blood running hot in his veins. In this moment, he would do anything Rufus asked of him. 

“You didn’t come here on business,” Rufus muses. He angles his body toward Tseng and takes a step in closer, close enough for their slight difference in height to be evident, Tseng’s eyes on level with his mouth. “Did you?” 

“No.” 

Rufus grins, predatory. “Pleasure, then.” He fingers the edge of Tseng’s tie, slides his hand down the front of his chest to snag against the first button of his suit jacket. He makes a thoughtful little sound in his throat, considering, before nimbly popping the button open with his thumb and forefinger. 

Tseng holds his breath as Rufus undoes the second button and pushes the two halves of his jacket apart. His knuckles brush against the Shinra-issued Peacemaker nestled under Tseng’s arm, and he freezes. 

“You’re armed.” Rufus cocks his head. His grin widens, teeth startlingly white and sharp in the moonlight. “A Turk through and through.”

“What did you expect?” Tseng replies calmly. 

Rufus wraps a confident hand around the butt of the handgun. “Do you mind?” 

Heat coils in the pit of Tseng’s stomach. He slowly raises his arms, hands up in voluntary surrender. “Be my guest.” 

Rufus nudges the tip of a pristine white shoe between Tseng’s feet, kicking them further apart and forcing him into a wide-legged stance. He leans in, mouth hot against Tseng’s ear. “Be a good boy and stand still for me. Wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.” 

He unholsters the weapon, checks the safety, and removes the clip with the efficiency of a man intimately familiar with the process. Rufus is skilled with handguns. Tseng knows because he taught him how to hold them, proper posturing, how to shoot to maim, to kill. 

Rufus moves to repeat the action on the other side, and the brush of his hand along Tseng’s ribs sends a shiver down his spine. 

Disarmed, he shrugs out of his jacket, letting it fall to pool on the floor behind him. 

Rufus’ gaze rakes the length of his body. He slips a finger beneath the leather holster where it fits snugly against Tseng’s chest. “What else?” 

“That’s it.” 

Rufus inclines his head, skeptical. “No knives? That’s unlike you.” 

Tseng had considered tucking a blade into the top of his stocking, but decided against it. He felt ridiculous enough wearing lingerie without outfitting it for tactical purposes. 

“No knives.” He confirms. 

Rufus looks at him from under his lashes, resting his palm against the small of Tseng’s back. “Care if I check?” 

“Now you’re just making excuses to feel me up.” Tseng retorts. He is hyper-aware of the fit of lace and silk against his skin beneath his clothing. A heated thrill runs through him, wondering how Rufus will react once he discovers it. 

“Perhaps.” Rufus’ expression is wolfish. “I haven’t been able to get you off my mind.” He makes quick work of ridding Tseng of his leather holster, dropping it to join his jacket on the floor. “Getting my hands on you.” Deft fingers loosen Tseng’s tie, sliding it free from his collar and tossing it carelessly aside. Rufus tucks his face into the crook of Tseng’s neck, inhaling as if to draw in his scent. “I’m not a patient man, Tseng. You’ve kept me waiting too long.” 

Tseng huffs a laugh, eyes fluttering when Rufus’ mouth seals over his pulse point. “Are you going to indulge me your fantasies?” 

Rufus ignores the question. His hands smooth down Tseng’s sides and fist in the fabric of his shirt. He jerks it sharply, pulling the tails free from his waistband. “Tell me you’ve thought of me, too.” 

“I have.” Tseng admits. For all his efforts to distract himself, Rufus was always on his mind. Every night, every morning, every mission. Tseng did not fear death, it was an inevitable point in his future. A fate he had accepted would come sooner rather than later. He didn’t worry about dying in the line of duty—he worried about leaving Rufus behind. What it would mean for him if Tseng bled out in the street and he lost his most valuable ally. 

“I dreamt of you,” Rufus drags his mouth in a hot trail along Tseng’s jaw to his ear. He sinks his teeth into the tender flesh, the point of a canine clicking across the stud in his lobe, and Tseng stops thinking entirely. “It felt so real. You came to me here. I had you against the glass.” 

Rufus presses against him with intent, and Tseng’s head spins.

It had always been Rufus on his back, on his knees. Rufus begging to be fucked. More often than not, Tseng fucked him while still mostly in his suit, quick and dirty. Rufus led, and he followed, driven by lust and spurred on by the sounds Rufus made when Tseng put his hands on him. He had never asked for any other way. 

“Do you ever think about it, Tseng? My cock inside of you?” Rufus grinds against his hip, sighing into his hair. He reaches between their bodies to cup Tseng through the front of his pants, pressing with the heel of his hand. Tseng gasps, his hips stuttering forward to chase sweet friction.

Rufus’ fingers trace the outline of Tseng’s half-hard cock. He goes suddenly still and quiet, and Tseng knows that he has found the texture of the lace through the fine fabric of his suit. Rufus leans away to look at him, eyes narrowing. Tseng stares calmly back. His heart kicks into overdrive. 

The hand between his legs falls away. Rufus gathers either side of his untucked shirt in his hands and jerks them part. Delicate buttons leap from their stitching, scattering across the penthouse and bouncing into the shadows. Underneath, the garter belt sits higher on Tseng’s hips than the waistband of his pants, black lace showing between the two halves of his ruined shirt. 

He stands perfectly still, chest rising and falling with even breath while Rufus sizes him up. Pale fingers reach out to trail down the flat plane of Tseng’s stomach and toy with the edge of the lace. 

“When were you going to tell me?”

“I wasn’t.” 

Rufus huffs, amused. “And here I thought you’d ignored my gift.” 

“I wanted to.” 

The grin that spreads across Rufus’ handsome features indicates he likes that answer. Likes that Tseng couldn’t stay away. 

“Don’t move.” 

He steps away, and Tseng tracks his silhouette across the room. Rufus pauses, and the lights come on over the piano, over the open space before the window where Tseng waits. He dims them to a soft glow, shifting the atmosphere of the penthouse into something sensual. Sepia with fuzzy shadow and amber light. He then grabs one of the plush wingback chairs and drags it over to face the window, gracefully falling into it and crossing his legs at the knee, propping his chin in his hand. He looks effectively noble and blasé. A king on his throne, waiting to be entertained.

“Now then.” He says, “Show me.” 

Tseng drags a breath into his lungs and wills his body to move. He rolls his shoulders so the remainder of his dress shirt slips off his arms, bunching and hanging at his elbows. Open air hits his naked chest and he shivers, goosebumps rising on scarred skin. Buttons at his wrists are undone, his shirt falls to the floor. He goes for his belt next, sliding the leather back through the loops. He feels the slip of lace and silk against his skin when his hips shift forward, and his chest tightens, his pulse fluttering like hummingbird wings. 

Rufus watches, pale eyes blazing gold in the half-light. 

Tseng makes an effort to move slowly. To make Rufus wait, to make him _want._ His belt buckle jingles when he frees the clasp, and then he’s undoing the button of his suit pants, dragging the zipper down, careful not to snag on the fragile lace beneath. He burns under the intensity of Rufus’ gaze, and thinks this must be how prey animals feel facing down a predator. 

Rufus shifts, uncrossing his legs, spreading his knees. He doesn’t take his eyes off Tseng, and it ignites something in him to have the undivided attention of the soon-to-be most powerful man in all of Gaia. Emboldened, he turns his back before easing his pants down, revealing the intricate panel of lace stretched across the curve of his ass. He leans forward on his pelvis, widening his stance and glancing over his shoulder to catch Rufus’ reaction. 

Hungry eyes rake him from the floor upward, tracking up the length of his legs, the corded muscles of his back, the fall of dark hair. 

“I knew you would be exquisite in that, but my fantasies pale in comparison to you standing here in front of me.” 

Tseng chuckles and his face heats. “Can’t say it’s anything I ever imagined wearing.” 

“It was made for you. Specifically to your measurements.” Rufus’ voice pitches lower. “Perfect.” 

“Frivolous.” Tseng corrects, finally stepping out of his pants. “I’ve always thought this stuff to be a waste. Why spend so much money and effort on something you’re just going to take off?” 

Rufus barks a laugh. “You _would_ say that. It’s more practical than you think.” 

Tseng dares a glimpse at himself in the dark glass. He doesn’t recognize the long, lean figure staring back, wanton and exposed. It’s too much. He looks away, searching the reflection for Rufus’ eyes and finding he has stood from his chair. 

Rufus prowls forward, closing the distance between them. “Turn around.” 

Tseng swivels to face him, and Rufus swears under his breath at the sight. His gaze sweeps the length of Tseng’s body, drinking in the details; the snug fit of the stockings around strong thighs, the silver garter clasps winking under the lights, Tseng’s cock trapped behind sheer lace, the flushed head peeking shyly over the top. 

“Look at you,” Rufus breathes, “ _Look_ at you.” 

Tseng holds his chin high. It’s wholly unlike him to preen, but when Rufus looks at him like _that?_ He feels powerful. Desire crackles like electricity in the air between them. The culmination of weeks spent apart, Tseng denying himself the truth while Rufus awaited his imminent return. All the nights spent alone in their beds, sighing each other’s names like secrets to the dark. 

Rufus steps in closer, within arms reach. He is beautiful and dangerous in the moonlight, something untouchable, yet his attention is anchored on Tseng alone, lips parted, pupils flooding all the blue from his eyes. 

There’s a beat of nothingness. They gaze at each other, ice and sienna. Rufus looks at Tseng as if he has never seen him before. As if he is the only man he ever wants to look at. 

It’s unclear who moves first. It doesn’t matter. One instant they are still and silent, the next they are pressed flush together, and kissing, kissing, kissing. Rufus shoves his tongue past Tseng’s teeth, moaning into his open mouth. He reaches around and tugs the tie in Tseng’s hair free, loosing the section he so meticulously kept swept back from his face. It falls around his shoulders like spilled ink, and Rufus sinks his hands into it as if Tseng were something holy. 

“Beautiful,” he whispers. 

“I’m already here, wearing this. There’s no need to butter me up,” Tseng teases, half-hearted. The truth is, he feels naked-nerved when Rufus compliments him, when Rufus’ mouth moves against his own. He craves more. 

“Hush,” Rufus rests his forehead against Tseng’s and slides his hands down the lines of his body to settle in the dips of his waist over the lace of the garter belt. “I’ll tell you you’re beautiful as often as I like.” He thumbs along the raised pink line of the healing gash in Tseng’s side. The new scar tissue is hypersensitive, and he jumps at the light touch. 

“My fierce, beautiful Tseng.” 

Rufus pushes at him, urging him back until Tseng’s shoulders press against the frigid wall of glass, so cold and sudden against his skin that it takes his breath away. He gasps into Rufus’ mouth while a shiver wracks him, and Rufus moves to kiss a searing line down his neck, tongue laving over his collarbone like the lick of flame. 

“Rufus,” the name comes out more air than voice, and Tseng feels the lips against his shoulder curl into a smile. 

“I like when you use my name,” Rufus purrs. He kisses the faded entry wound of a bullet Tseng took when he was young and green. A mark left as a reminder; a lesson learned. “Say it again.” 

Tseng swallows hard. Inhales a shaky breath. _“Rufus.”_

“Mm,” Rufus’ blond head lowers. His mouth trails down Tseng’s sternum, across his chest, sealing over the peaked bud of a nipple. His clever tongue flicks, and Tseng can’t help the noise that rises in the back of his throat, muffling it behind bitten-closed lips. 

“You’re always so tightly laced,” Rufus muses, setting his teeth against tender flesh and making Tseng writhe against the glass. “So restrained.” His hands ghost over Tseng’s hips, fingers resting on the curve of his ass over the lace. Blue eyes roll up to look Tseng in the face. “But the _sounds_ you make in my dreams, Tseng. I can’t stop thinking about it. I wonder what you sound like when you let go?” 

Tseng leans his head back against the cool of the glass, dizzy. “You say that like you don’t _know,”_ he grits, “Like you haven’t had me before.” 

Rufus chuckles, condescending. “Oh, but I haven’t. Not like this. It’s true, you’ve fucked me. I’ve had you moaning in my ear. Shaking against me. But—” He drops gracefully to his knees, smoothing his palms up the length of Tseng’s legs over the stockings. “Tonight I want to pick you apart. Watch you break for me.” He strokes the jut of a hipbone, soothing in circles with his thumb as if he senses the alarm bells wailing in Tseng’s head like hurricane sirens. 

He looks up into Tseng’s eyes, and his lashes are long and golden, casting shadow on his high cheekbones. 

“Do you trust me?” 

Tseng licks his lips. The alarms pitch higher. He feels the warmth of Rufus’ breath over his most sensitive skin, and resists the urge to press his hips forward against his mouth. “I—”

“Ah,” Rufus cuts in, kissing the glimmer of skin between the garter belt and the laced edge of the underwear. “It’s a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ question, Tseng.” 

“Yes.” Tseng feels the surrender in his chest. All at once, the sirens stop. “I trust you.” 

Rufus responds by leaning in and mouthing at the outline of Tseng’s cock through the lace. 

Tseng’s eyes flutter. His mouth falls open. His breath heaves out of his lungs. 

Rufus watches him from between his legs. He licks him with the flat of his tongue, from the swell of his balls to the tip of his cock, relentless, until the lace is damp and tacky. Pink lips pillow against the head of Tseng’s cock, licking away the bead of precome gathered there, sucking at him through the fragile material. 

Tseng runs his fingers through the fair silk of Rufus’ hair, gripping at the back of his head and holding him in place to rut against his tongue. He thinks he could come from just this, trapped between the hot suction of Rufus’ wet mouth and the icy bite of the glass at his back. The firm stroke of skilled tongue. The rasp of lace. Rufus on his knees, blue eyes gazing up like a man come to worship. 

Tseng feels the crescendo, his body pulling taught as a bowstring. He doesn’t want it to end. Not like this. 

“Stop. _Stop.”_ He yanks Rufus back by the hair, and grieves the warmth of his mouth immediately. They stare at each other, both panting, Rufus’ neck arched and lips glistening. 

“Really? Too much?” 

“Nearly, I—” Tseng takes a moment to catch his breath. All his nerve-endings scream in protest of the release they were denied. “I didn’t want it to end so… suddenly.” 

Rufus grins, filthy with wetness on his face. Tseng lets go of his hair, and he straightens, slotting their mouths together to give him a taste of himself. 

“You want me to fuck you, Tseng?” 

_Yes._

Tseng reels. The simple word knots his tongue. He nods, affirmative. 

“Say it,” Rufus urges, kissing his neck. “I want to hear you say the words. _Fuck me.”_

Tseng grits his teeth. Begging goes against everything he is. And yet—

“I want you to _fuck me.”_

Rufus shivers against him, as affected by the request as Tseng. “Turn around,” he says, “Put your hands on the glass.” 

Tseng obeys, piloted by desire and dazed with the revelation that he has turned into a pliant, needy thing in Rufus Shinra’s hands. He is used to control, commanding it and taking it. It’s disorienting how easily Rufus robs him of it. How freely Tseng gives it up when it’s Rufus who asks. He rests his palms against the smooth surface, staring out over the water. He doesn’t know the wild, dark eyes looking back at him, reflected in the glass. The flushed face. The tousled hair. 

“Wait for me.” Rufus says. He lingers for a moment, as if to commit the scene to memory, before he disappears into his rooms. 

It feels like hours that he is gone. It is likely minutes. Tseng leans his forehead against the chill of the glass and watches the churn of the ocean. The sky darkens, storm clouds rolling in off the water and settling over the coast. He will be expected back in Midgar by sunrise, regardless of the weather. He has already overstayed his intended time frame. There’s a report to be written and submitted. An account to be given. False information to be fed to the president about the activities of his unruly son. 

If he only knew his highest regarded agent stood debauched with his legs spread, waiting for Rufus to come and fuck him before sending him home to Midgar with the marks of their illicit affair under his suit. 

A door opens and closes. Tseng breathes in. Out. He hears the soft sound of bare feet crossing the hardwood in a familiar gait, and looks for Rufus from the corner of his eye. 

He is dressed only in a silk robe. The belt is tied loosely, showing off an immaculate vee of white skin that plunges nearly to his navel. The sight of his lover is like kindling to a flame. Tseng’s arousal reawakens immediately. 

“Better than all my dreams.” Rufus murmurs. He comes to Tseng and drapes himself elegantly across his back, hooking his chin over his shoulder and putting his mouth to his ear. “How long has it been since you were properly fucked?” 

Tseng’s thoughts are sluggish with Rufus’ weight laid over him, with Rufus’ steady heartbeat thrumming lightly against his shoulder. He considers the question. Years. Not since his rookie days, when he was young and overeager, full of piss and vinegar, reckless. 

“A while.” He admits. 

“Shame.” Rufus says, but Tseng hears the smile in his voice. As if he secretly likes that answer. He rolls his hips, and Tseng feels the hard ridge of his cock carving up the cleft of his ass through the silk of the robe, the lace of the underwear. “You never answered me, when I asked if you’d ever thought of it like this.” 

“Being fucked by Rufus Shinra wasn’t exactly in the job description.” 

Rufus stills, laughs against Tseng’s hair. “In _sufferable._ ” 

“I have thought of it.” Tseng reluctantly confesses. He had imagined himself undone at Rufus’ hands. No one else could possibly occupy that place in his fantasies. He saw them in his own dreams, tangled up, Rufus on top of him and inside of him, the duet of their combined pleasure when he wrung every last defense from Tseng, leaving him breathless and wrecked. 

“Was it like this?” 

It’s Tseng’s turn to laugh. “While wearing panties? Not exactly.” 

“Gods, you’re no fun at all. If I fuck you, will you shut up?” 

Tseng arches his spine, pushing back against Rufus and earning himself a gasp. “Find out.” 

The challenge incites Rufus to action. He grips Tseng’s hips, kneading the muscle of his ass through the fragile lace. A knee works between Tseng’s legs, knocking them further apart. Rufus hooks a finger in the waistband of the underwear and draws them down, peeling them to the top of the stockings and no further, effectively trapping Tseng’s thighs. “Your ass is incredible.” Rufus runs his hands over bare skin, spreading him open and groaning at the sight. 

Tseng drops his head between his shoulders, exhaling a shaky breath, trembling with anticipation, with want. Something about the moment feels monumentous. The quiet sound of a bottle being uncapped. The rustle of fabric. Rufus shifts. This time, when his cock bumps against Tseng’s ass, there is nothing separating their skin. 

“I wish you could see yourself like this.” Rufus whispers, voice reverent. He teases a slick finger around Tseng’s rim, rubbing at him with the pad of his fingertip. A sharp sound tears out of Tseng. He jerks so hard at the sudden contact, he fears he’ll tear the lace bound around his thighs. 

“Relax,” Rufus instructs, "Trust me, Tseng."

Tseng closes his eyes and wills his muscles to unlock by cataloguing them in his mind. Rufus circles him with his fingertip, adding steady pressure. For all his usual impatience, he takes his time with this, slowly working a finger in to the first knuckle, attentive to the cues of Tseng’s body. He knows when to press forward, when to let off, all the while cooing filth and sweet nothings that make Tseng’s legs shake. A second finger joins the first, the same hands that danced across piano keys, that disarmed Tseng with quick efficiency, now coaxing him to pliancy. He responds with heavy breath and throaty moans, and Rufus pours a litany of praise into his ear. 

_Look at you. So good for me, my Tseng._

Tseng thinks he will combust. Burn down to ash and ruin in Rufus’ hands. 

“Rufus,” the name breaks out of him. Two pleading, sacred syllables. Tseng doesn’t know if he’s ready, and he doesn’t care. He will die if this torture continues another second, if he doesn’t get _more._

“Tell me, lover,” Rufus sighs. He twists his knuckles, dragging over the place that makes Tseng thrash. 

Tseng catches himself rocking back on those fingers, saying the name again, pitching into a groan he’s powerless to hold back. Rufus seems to be in no hurry, content to work him into a frenzy. 

It’s too much. It’s so much. It’s not enough. 

“ _Rufus._ ” It’s bitten out this time, a threat. “Please—Get on with it.” 

He half expects Rufus to draw this out, to torment him and make him plead, but he doesn’t. He withdraws his hand. There’s an awful, terrible moment of emptiness in which Tseng aches and clenches around nothing. Then Rufus starts pushing into him, trading fingers for cock, and nothing becomes _everything_ , all at once. The slow, maddening slide punches all the air out of Tseng’s lungs. Rufus’ cock is thick and hot as blood, carving him open until he’s full, and fuller still. Tseng splays his fingers, bracing against the glass to keep his knees from giving out. The noise that comes out of him is nothing he’s ever heard before, and Rufus answers him by moaning like _he’s_ the one being fucked. 

“Oh gods— _Tseng,_ ” He draws back slowly, pushes in again, falls into a steady, shallow rhythm that has their voices joining in shared pleasure. 

The burn fades to something sweeter. Less like being impaled and more like the stoking of a flame, hotter and brighter. Rufus rocks into him with increasing speed, and every thrust sends little bursts of warmth coursing through Tseng’s nerve endings. Rufus brushes the hair away from his sweaty neck, peppering kisses over the sensitive skin, trailing his lips along scarred shoulders. 

“You feel so good.” He groans low and shameless. Tseng feels the sound vibrate out of Rufus’ chest and into his own, reverberating into his ribcage like a hymn. All at once, Rufus grips his hair, wrapping the length of it around his fist and _pulling_ , jerking his head up. Tseng’s scalp stings in protest, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes as his spine bows into a deeper arc. The shift in position lets Rufus’ cock glide over his prostate, and Tseng’s mouth falls open in a silent cry. The sea stretches out before him, dark and endless. If not for the cool glass beneath his palms, he could step out into the nothingness. His vision blurs with tears. Rufus’ hand squeezes bruises into his hip, grounding him. The push and drag of cock has Tseng sighing, fogging the glass in front of his face. 

“Someday, it will be Midgar,” Rufus whispers hotly in his ear, “My city, my company—” he punctuates the words with the snap of his hips, “— _my_ Midgar.” He brings his hand up to Tseng’s jaw, thumb slotting into the hollow where his pulse beats in staccato. “And when it’s mine, Tseng, it will be _yours._ ” 

“Yes,” Tseng babbles, breathless. He wants to see all of Rufus’ dreams come to fruition, to live in that fantasy with him. He is too cockstruck for rationality, picturing that glorious future at Rufus Shinra’s side. The tension winds tighter within him, a cord being pulled taut. Rufus zeroes in on the place that makes his vision white, and Tseng’s thoughts scatter, a cry leaving his lips. 

“Touch yourself,” Rufus says, and his voice takes on a new edge. Something dominant and commanding and _consuming_. “I want to feel you come on my cock.” 

Tseng’s legs are shaking before he even palms himself. His trembling fingers skate across the damp, ruined lace, shoving at the edge where his neglected cock remains trapped. The second he grips himself, electricity rockets up his spine. Rufus’ fingers tighten around his throat, just enough to make the back of Tseng’s nose tingle, enough for him to be acutely aware of the breath he drags into his lungs. He strokes himself with no finesse, knowing he won’t last. 

“Say my name.” Rufus snarls the command, slamming his hips forward to seat himself to the hilt, “Say my name when you come.” 

Every neuron in Tseng’s body fires at once, lighting up like Midgar’s skyline. He fractures with a shout of Rufus’ name, shivering in his grasp, spilling like delicate lace against the glass. Rufus tenses and follows after, finished by the tight pull of Tseng’s body. He makes a sound a dying man wouldn’t, and shakes so hard against Tseng, he worries his knees will buckle and send them both crashing to the floor. 

Tseng leans his fever-hot forehead against the glass as they come down. Rufus slumps heavily across his back. 

“That was,” he pants, giddy and wild, “Incredible.” 

Tseng simply nods in agreement, because he hasn’t quite caught his breath yet, because he is still dizzy with the rush, because he thinks this night has somehow changed him forever. 

They bathe together afterward. Rufus sprawls back against Tseng’s chest, only his flushed face and pale shoulders visible over jasmine-scented suds. He plays idly with a lock of Tseng’s hair, twisting it round and round his finger. 

“Stay tonight.” 

Tseng sighs. He would love nothing more than to stay; fall into bed with Rufus Shinra, sleep alongside him. He is exhausted, his back aching and muscles sore. He thinks of returning to Midgar, to break-neck reality, in just a few short hours, and what little energy he has left drains from of him.

“Your father will expect a report first thing in the morning.” 

Rufus huffs, disturbing the bubbles around his face. “What would happen if you were late?”

“I’ve never been late for anything.” 

Rufus tilts his head back, tugs on Tseng’s hair to drag him down into a languid kiss. “Stay.”

“You know I can’t.” 

“Lie to me, then.” Rufus says, “Tell me you will stay. Take me to bed. Pretend there is no protocol, no Tseng of the Turks. Just my Tseng, who lets me fuck him and keep him, who sleeps at my side.” 

Tseng smiles sadly. He thinks of Rufus left alone here, in the quiet and the solitude. An empty penthouse filled with nothing but his longing and his own thoughts. The dreams he can’t quite reach. Not yet.

“Alright,” Tseng agrees. 

“It will be so, one day.” Rufus says. His voice is low and soft, his quicksilver mind far away in his fantasies where Midgar bustles bright and powerful like a living thing, and Rufus Shinra reigns.

 _I hope so,_ Tseng thinks, but doesn’t say—hope is a dangerous thing. 

They crawl into Rufus’ enormous bed together, legs tangling beneath silk sheets. Rufus whispers promises in the dark that sound too good to be true, words that make Tseng’s heart swell, that make him want so much more than he has any right to. Tseng holds him close and kisses him languid and tender until they fall asleep in each other’s arms. 

The chirp of Tseng’s alarm wakes him the second it sounds. He rolls over to silence it, blinking in the darkness of not-quite morning. Rain drums against the windows, a flash of lightning veins through storm clouds and smog in the distance. Tseng thinks of using the weather as an excuse to stay longer, but he would have missed the storm entirely if he’d left when he was supposed to. 

Rufus stirs but doesn’t wake when Tseng leaves the warm cocoon of their embrace. In the bathroom mirror, he admires the purple fingerprints over the arc of his pelvis, the winestains in the shape of Rufus’ mouth blooming over his throat and across his shoulders. Then he covers them with his suit and tie, putting the night behind him like shedding his skin to become Shinra’s finest weapon once more. 

He considers returning to the bedside, dropping a kiss to Rufus’ temple, his mouth, whispering a soft goodbye in shared breath. But in the end, he doesn’t. Goodbye feels too intimate. Too much like something Tseng swore he would never have. He slips out of the penthouse as silently as he arrived. 

A week passes in bustle and blood and the yawning absence of Rufus. The gash in Tseng’s side fully heals. The fingerprint bruises fade. He thinks of Rufus often and takes too many hits off the memory of being pressed against the glass, Rufus singing in his ear and fucking him senseless. It keeps him going like a drug, a high he chases. 

He swings by his office late one night after a particularly messy task. Someone else’s blood stains the leather of his gloves, the pristine white of his shirtsleeves. He meant only to check in before returning home, but something on his desk catches his eye: A lush bouquet of flowers, and a box. A black box with a white satin ribbon, and a wax-sealed envelope attached. He half-expects more négligée, but this time it’s gourmet chocolates and imported coffee, specific flavors suited to Tseng’s tastes. 

He opens the note and reads the familiar handwriting, his lips curling fondly into a secret smile.

_Don’t stay away too long. -R.S._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In hindsight, this probably should have been a long one-shot. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. To those of you who read the first chapter months ago, thank you for returning, and for being patient with me rambling about this self-indulgent monstrosity on Twitter. I have a lot of feelings about this pairing, and I hope it shines through. 
> 
> Please leave kudos or a comment to let me know if you enjoyed this one. It really became a labor of love. At one point it was at 9k words, and I realized I hated it and had a personal crisis over it. So I shredded it and rewrote the majority of it over the past 2 weeks. 
> 
> If you'd like to witness my madness, you can find me on Twitter at my main [here](https://twitter.com/occasusH), and my FF7 side Twitter where I can be found frequently shrieking Tseng's name [here](https://twitter.com/OCCVII).


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